


Can't Run But

by muzzleofbees



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Community: avengerkink, F/M, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Rough Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muzzleofbees/pseuds/muzzleofbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm sorry, Clint." Fury does this thing where he pretends he's a normal person in order to extend normal human emotions, like sympathy. Who buys it? Does anybody buy it? Is Clint expected to buy it? "You are one of the best agents we've ever had. This was not an easy decision to make but ultimately, it was my call, and I have to do what's best for the entire organization." </i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Right," he says flatly. "I get it." What else can he say? He is compromised. For all he knows, he's a sleeper agent now. Nobody should trust him. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fury

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [Prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5758.html?thread=7596414#t7596414): Clint realizes early on that he isn't a super, isn't a demi-God and hell, isn't even as good as a super-spy as his fellow Avengers. That has to mean they won't keep him around forever, no matter how much he likes them and they pretend to think he's competent, right?
> 
> So he decides to use his other 'talents' in the hopes that it'll make them keep him around longer, before they realize he's actually useless

Clint Barton and Director Fury are in the middle of a staring contest that Barton doesn't understand and can't seem to escape. He doesn't blink—he never blinks—and Fury apparently has all the time in the world to study him, so they stare and stare to the accompaniment of the _tick tick tick_ of Fury's office clock. It's strange to be in a staring contest with a one-eyed man, but it's not the first time he's found himself in this position. Even if Barton could break eye contact, he definitely wouldn't be the one to break the silence. He knows why Fury called him in to his office in the middle of the post-Loki chaos, he just didn't know why Fury won't spit it out so they can both move on with their lives.

 

"Agent Barton, you've been compromised," Fury begins. "According to what data we could gather on his scepter, he could extract information as easily as he could implant it, which means he knows everything you do about S.H.I.E.L.D. What we haven't been able to ascertain is if the connection is still…live."

 

"It's broken. It doesn't exist anymore."  

 

His back hurts. Really fucking hurts like a motherfucker. He's not sure exactly when or how that happened—it literally could have been at any point in the past seven days.  There are pills for this sort of thing, but they aren't in his possession. He needs a couch. He'll be happy with a chance to stretch out on the floor.

 

"We don't know that," Fury rejoins quickly. "We _can't_ know that. For all we know, Loki is still hiding somewhere in there. What if you're triggered during a critical moment of a mission?" Fury shakes his head. "The risk is too great, especially without your…"

 

Barton sighs. Coulson. Right. If Phil had survived the fight, would he be standing up for Hawkeye now? He'd like to think so, but that man's loyalty was never compromised, and it only belonged to one person. The person currently telling him that he is done, finished, over forever.

 

"I'm sorry, Clint." Fury does this thing where he pretends he's a normal person in order to extend normal human emotions, like sympathy. Who buys it? Does anybody buy it? Is Clint expected to buy it? "You are one of the best agents we've ever had. This was not an easy decision to make but ultimately, it was my call, and I have to do what's best for the entire organization."

 

"Right," he says flatly. "I get it." What else can he say? He _is_ compromised. For all he knows, he's a sleeper agent now. Nobody should trust him.

 

"This means you are no longer part of the Avengers Initiative. Well, technically you weren't part of it originally."

 

Great. More salt in the wound. He never knew the official reason why he wasn't originally recruited to be part of the Avengers, thought Natasha intimated it had something to do with his psych profile. He thinks it has more to do with his lack of superpowers. He's an assassin who never misses a target, a secret agent who can blend into shadows, a sponge for new information with a photographic memory, but he's redundant on the Avengers team. The Muggsy Bogues of super heroes.   Besides, there isn't much he can do that Natasha can't.

 

There's another file on him now. One he's not supposed to know about. It lists the death of every agent he's responsible for in a neat little list (Coulson's name is not on that list much to his eternal relief. When he feels like he might cry, he remembers that black and white fact.) It also attempts to reconstruct the events of his incarceration, but Barton can barely remember any of it, and it's not like there's another source.  They got a lot of it wrong. He doesn't know how he knows, can't even say which parts are inaccurate, but they feel wrong.

 

"But  Agent Romanov has earned more than a few favors, and she's called one in for you. She'd like you to remain with her as an Avenger. " He announces it like a god on high handing down a personal blessing. Clint gets it. But he doesn't know what to say.

 

"What?" He's not offended that Natasha has done this for him, but he's a little surprised anybody agreed to it.

 

"You can move in to Stark Tower immediately, if you wish. But Clint…may I make a suggestion?" He steeples his fingers and his face softens ever so slightly. Anybody else might not have noticed, but Barton notices. It's pity and Clint is already tired of it. "Perhaps you should take some time off. Go out and enjoy the world that you helped save."

 

 _So nice of you to remember that part, Director_.

 

"I'll consider it. Is there anything else?"

 

Fury pulls his desk drawer open and extracts a minidisc. He slides it over and Barton sees his name engraved on the case. "Coulson left this for you." _In the event of his death_ passes between them, loud and clear.

 

"Thank you." Phil's name may not be on the list that now hangs around his neck, but Barton still feels responsible. He should have fought harder. 

 

He walks out of S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters a free man and a convicted felon. _It's not your fault. None of it was you. You didn't know what was happening, how he was using you._ A great defense, all the better because it happens to be a true one. But it did little to strip him of his personal sense of guilt, and it did nothing to protect his job or his place in the world.

 

He walks to the only place that'll have him. He's not interested in collecting his meager belongings from his bunk at S.H.I.E.L.D, and since he's been compromised, all of his secret hidey-holes are also compromised. Maybe Loki embedded assassins to pick him off at the first opportunity. Didn't seem likely but who knows what Loki is capable of? He sure as hell doesn't. Even after getting dunked in the big blue sea of Loki's madness, he can't even begin to speculate on what the hell goes on in his head.

 

This isn't the first time he's strolled through the front door of enemy territory, but it's the first time he feels all weird and vulnerable about it. And Stark Tower isn't really enemy territory. The conditioned air flows over him as he passes through the revolving door, taking him out of Manhattan's unforgiving heat. The guard in the lobby nods at him, acknowledging Barton belongs there. He nods back, though just that small movement is enough to make his back flare with fresh pain. He keeps the wince from his face, makes sure his stride remains unbroken. He's good at hiding pain.

 

Natasha lives on the forty-fifth floor. The last time he visited her, she had the whole floor to herself. This time, she greets him as the elevator opens. She's not smiling, but there's a certain bend to her red lips that's like a smile. Barton's glad she still wears it for him.

 

"Come on. I'll show you to your room."

 

There's plenty of space on the forty-fifth floor and his room is actually an opulent suite that makes his skin crawl. It's barely furnished and the walls are mostly bare. This is a feature, according to Natasha, since he's allowed to decorate it anyway he wants. That has never been an option in his life. He doesn't like it.

 

"There's a breakfast meeting every morning at nine, but it doesn't technically start until Tony wonders in."

 

Barton is usually awake by five every morning, so he thinks he won't have a problem with beating Stark to breakfast.

 

"What else is there to do around here?"

 

"Whatever needs to be done. Thor and Steve have been helping with the clean up around the city. Dr. Banner has been providing healthcare to everybody who was injured during the attack and can't afford the hospital. Tony's been busy with rebuilding the Tower and being a billionaire playboy."

 

"What about you?"

 

"I'm helping Pepper right now. "

 

Then, Barton decides, that's what he'll do, too.

 


	2. Pepper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He starts making himself useful to Pepper. He runs her errands, he fetches food when she's too busy to notice she hasn't eaten in twelve hours. He's actually a damned good administrative assistant—it's strange what skills one picks up in the secret world of super spies—and Pepper happily accepts his help. Natasha is usually with them or nearby, and that means Barton doesn't have to talk much. 
> 
> Until the night she's on an assignment from S.H.I.E.L.D and Pepper turns her inquisitive eyes on Barton, and he knows his days of being the helpful, silent shadow are over.

Captain America may be the leader of the Avengers, but Iron Man is the glue holding the fragile team of freaks and weirdos together. And Pepper Potts is the glue holding Tony Stark together. Her approval isn't enough to secure his place on the team, but her disapproval would be more than enough to destroy him. When infiltrating hostile territory, gaining the acceptance and trust of the person at the top of the hierarchy is key, and Barton doesn't doubt Pepper is that person.

 

He shadows Natasha for a week, stalking her like a target. She's aware he's there, of course. Whether or not Pepper is too, it's hard to say. She's smart, so Barton doesn't take anything for granted. He mostly sticks to the ceiling ducts, learning the narrow, complicated inner workings of the Tower. When they leave the building, he trails behind, blending into the crowd around him easily (he can blend anywhere). It's child's play, really.  And it's kind of fun. Pepper is a fascinating woman and he could—has—spent hours just watching Natasha for the thrill of it, so the entertainment factor is high.

 

It's fun right up until Tasha corners him in his suite after a late night in Pepper's office.

 

"I think you're creeping Pepper out."

 

"What?" That is not his plan. "Why?"

 

"Because you're being a creeper."

 

"How does she know? Did you tell her?"

 

"No. JARVIS did. "

 

Clint has no idea what a JARVIS is. Once Natasha explains, he realizes he's in serious trouble. An omnipresent AI system is not something he wants to worry about.  After that, he doesn't shadow anybody, and he tries very hard to walk through hallways and take elevators like everybody else in the Tower. He reminds himself that he can't be such a weirdo. He forces himself to eat at the breakfast meetings, instead of privately taking his breakfast before everybody wakes up. He also forces himself to eat whatever is offered, no matter who cooks it even though every fiber of his being resists the idea. _Stop, you don't know what's in that food!_

 

It's easy to see Pepper loves Natasha—calls her Tasha when nobody else is around and they laugh so easily together. _Laugh_. The sound of Natasha's laughter chills him to the bone most of the time, but when she's with Pepper, it's genuine. It's almost like she…forgets. Or maybe she doesn't have time to remember? Pepper usually has her running ragged.

 

Clint wants to forget, too.

 

He starts making himself useful to Pepper. He runs her errands, he fetches food when she's too busy to notice she hasn't eaten in twelve hours. He's actually a damned good administrative assistant—it's strange what skills one picks up in the secret world of super spies—and Pepper happily accepts his help. Natasha is usually with them or nearby, and that means Barton doesn't have to talk much.

 

Until the night she's on an assignment from S.H.I.E.L.D and Pepper turns her inquisitive eyes on Barton, and he knows his days of being the helpful, silent shadow are over.

 

"What are you doing here, Hawkeye?" The use of his codename startles him and he looks up from the boring spreadsheet to meet her knowing eyes.

 

"What?"

 

"Don't you have other work to do? Don't get me wrong, I love the extra help, but even Tasha didn't spend this much time with me when she was actually spying on us."

 

"No."

 

She continues to look at him like she expects more.  He tries to return to his work, but she won't stop watching him. _Yes,_ he wants to shout _, I'm aware of how stupid and ridiculous this is. This isn't my life_.

 

Except…it is. This is his life. Finding a niche wherever he goes, making himself fit because if he doesn't, he could lose everything in a blink of an eye. When the Avengers realize he's redundant, he'll still have the space he carved for himself in Pepper's office.

 

"I'm tired," she announces, setting aside her glass screen and uncurling from the chair. Barton doesn't make a move to go anywhere. He isn't tired. He hasn't been tired for days. He's not _doing_ anything. "Come on. I feel like a movie."

 

There aren't any DVDs in the Tower, but JARVIS has a digital copy of just about every movie ever made. Pepper grills him with a series of questions designed to narrow down their options, and somehow that leads to JARVIS cueing _Death Wish_. For the first time he sees the value of JARVIS.

 

He notices Pepper touch her temple—a gesture she only makes when she has a headache—and he's careful to put himself within touching distance of her. At first, there a good half-foot between them, but she pulls her feet up on the couch, and gradually she moves closer and he lets his hand find her shoulder, rubs at the stiff knot of muscle where her shoulder and her neck meet.

 

"Oh that feels so good," she moans, letting her head fall to the side. He pulls her a bit closer, but keeps his touch professional. "You're…really good at this."

 

He's good because he knows how to kill her. He could do it so fast that she wouldn't even realize it was happening. She'd be here and then she wouldn't be and all it would take was a little bit more pressure. He redoubles his focus on the knot, using his thumb to work the tension away.  When he's done he moves to the next one, methodically targeting and destroying the focal points of her stress. Consequently, she melts against him, a puddle of relaxed, smiling Pepper.

 

Clint is an expert at the take down massage, one of his few life skills he _didn't_ pick up from his time at S.H.I.E.L.D. The key is to take it slow, to stay profession and never, ever telegraph a move. It's less like leading and more like following. Not coaxing a body to a specific reaction, but predicting and encouraging certain natural physical reactions.  He maintains a respectful distance, but every touch communicates the same message— _I want to make you feel good. I can make you feel good. This is only for you._  

 

She is tense everywhere. There's no inch of her back that doesn't have a knot, but once he releases the muscles at the nape of her neck, her sighs change. His sharp gaze doesn't miss the outline of her hard nipples beneath her thin T-shirt, and each breathy sound travels straight to his cock. An amateur would make a move right then, but Barton has all the patience in the world.

 

She repositions herself, stretching out across his lap so he has complete access to her back. Before he can touch her, she rises, pulls her shirt off, then settles again with her breasts pressed to his thigh. "Unhook the bra." Her voice is muffled against her arms, but he hears her loud and clear.

 

The scrap of lace falls away, leaving him with smooth, unbroken skin. She's not scarred by bullets, blades, falling debris and the red hot sparks that rain down after an explosion. She's not scarred by anything, but she does have freckles in constellations and clusters across her shoulder blades. He loses track of the movie he's so focused on her, and he can tell she's not really paying attention to the film either.

 

"You know, Tony has a whole legion of massage therapists on the payroll, but none of them feel like this."

 

He digs his thumbs into the bundle of muscles at the base of her spine. Her legs straighten and her hips lift every so slightly. He delicately pushes her pants lower, revealing the creamy strip of skin above her panty line. He's getting closer to the danger zone, hyperaware of every one of her physical responses—the conscious and unconscious ones. Ultimately, she's the one who kicks her pants off, giving him full access to her legs. Her thighs are extremely sensitive to the touch, and she giggles and kicks her feet even though he tries not to tickle her.

 

His hands are quick and sensitive, and he can adjust quickly, changing the pressure and technique as he works up and down her body. He plays her like a beautifully crafted instrument, finding all the right notes, following her tune. When he finally touches the border of her thong underwear, she doesn't jerk away. His fingers dip between the material, test her reaction, press against the muscles. He carefully peels her panties away, rolls them down her thighs to hook around her knees. Her glutes are as tender and tense as the rest of her back, so for awhile he can keep up the charade and his cover isn't blown. He can smell her now, her arousal drifting up to his nose in faint whiffs. She spreads her legs as he works his way to the top of her thighs, and in the flickering light of the movie he can see her is skin is slick, glistening. It takes everything he has to suppress his natural reaction, to will the blood from rushing directly to his groin.

 

Barton works closer and closer to her center until he can actually feel the heat radiating from within.  This is delicate work. If he misunderstands anything he's witnessed in the past two weeks, if he fails to grasp her relationship with Stark, if he miscalculates her reactions, this will all blow up in his face. Calculating angles and wind speed velocity on the back of a jet soaring through the sky offered less risk.

 

Less reward, too. She spreads for him so easily, welcomes his fingers so sweetly, moans so prettily. Something sweet and musky perfumes the air, and once he's inside the buttery heat he doesn't want to pull away. His other hand still moves over her, massaging away the last of her stress while his fingers fluttered against her sensitive walls. When he's covered in her juices, and she's twitching and pressing her hips back, he begins to pump his arm, monitoring his force, finding the right tempo.

 

"Oh, Clint, this feels so good." The words slip from her lips, slurring together between gasps. "Don't…stop…"

 

He does, murmurs his apology, repositions his hand so his long fingers are used to their maximum potential. He grinds over her swollen clit with his thumb, thrusting harder and harder until she's humping her hips back, forcing an even harder rhythm. She pushes her hands beneath her, giving herself more leverage. It's amazing, the way she so deftly takes control of the situation.

 

As if she'd been playing him.

 

He smiles, biceps flexing, fingers curling to press into her G-spot. He smoothes his hand up her ribs to cup her breast, catching her rosy nipple between his knuckles, giving it a sharp tug. Her back arches, and he can't resist the dip of her back, his tongue dancing over the knobs of her spine before he kissed away the sweat in the curve. He kisses over her hip and when he reaches the fleshy curve, he bites. Hard.

 

He expects her to have a good reaction to the sudden pressure of his teeth, especially after the way he massaged her ass and upper thighs. But it's better than good. She clamps down so hard he can't move, and her whole body shakes. She turns her head suddenly, bites into his arm to muffle her shout of release, and his cock jerks to attention. He can't help it. There's something so beautiful about the way she breaks, and he understands why Stark will do anything for her. She's amazing. She's _this_.

 

When it's over, she curls up on his lap like a cat, her head resting on his chest, a soft smile on her lips.

 

"That was amazing," she purrs, the picture of contentment. He brushes the air away from her face, pets the silky threads, caresses the side of her cheek.  The corner of her mouth lifts and he congratulates himself on his successful mission.  "Now…what can I do for you, Clint?"

 

He wraps his arms around her tightly. "I'm fine."

 

She lifts her head, the sleepy look gone from her eyes, and he's instantly alert. He'd miscalculated, somehow?

 

"I appreciate the offer," he quickly adds. "But I'm really tired and I wanted to help you relax. So…relax. Please?"

 

She melts against his chest again and it's surprisingly nice. "Are you worried about Tony?"

 

"Should I be?"

 

"No. Tony doesn't do jealousy and it's not a trait he likes in other people."

 

"Will you tell him?" Not that there's much to tell. He could think of a half dozen massage parlors within three blocks that would have done the same—probably for free in Pepper's case.

 

"If he asks. But he won't."

 

Barton makes a sound of understanding and turns his attention back to the movie, which is almost over. He's seen it enough times that it doesn't matter. Pepper falls asleep in his arms, so he tells JARVIS to put on _Death Wish 2_ and gets comfortable. He feels good, satisfied now he has both Natasha and Pepper on his side. He couldn't have more powerful allies, though it amuses him to think he's reduced to hiding behind women. But they're the strongest women he knows, and as long as he's of some use to them, he's got a patch of ground under his feet. 


	3. Dr. Banner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's a little stiff as he lowers himself and he knows Banner notices. He doesn't say anything about the file, or about his interesting history, but his eyes keep going back to the list. Each name bigger than life right in front of his face. Each name an accusation. Each one a reminder of the blue. Bruce notices, grimaces, wipes the screen away with a tiny gesture of his fingers. 
> 
> "Sorry," he mutters. "I was looking for your medical history." 
> 
> "And the secret file happened to pop up with it?" 
> 
> "I was curious." He doesn't sound defensive, but he does look a little shamefaced. "You know, you're not the only one in that helicarrier who did something he regrets. And you're definitely not the only one who's done something he'd do anything to take back."

The blue is pain. It doesn't hurt him but it is agony. It's a sea of madness and regret, and he could sink forever and never reach the bottom. There's no source. It springs up from a black core, steaming and bubbling, stinking like sulfur water, burning him from the inside out. Clint is—was—drowning in it, and that's all he can remember.    
  
He gobbles pills down so he can sleep without dreaming. He still dreams, but he doesn't really remember. Just snatches of blue, where the madness seeped into the subconscious void. When he wakes he's groggy and his head hurts, so he swallows another handful of pills. The pain in his back, like the one behind his eyes, doesn't really go away. It fades in and out, and he knows it could be serious. He might not be able to walk this one off.    
  
He considers confiding in Natasha, but waits. If it's serious, she'll know, and she'll come to him.  But if it is serious, if it's something rest and painkillers can't take care of, what will he do? Where will he go? He doesn't even think he can pull back his bowstring in his current condition.    
  
He misses Phil. Every second of every day, he misses Phil. There's an empty place in the world now. A hole that follows him around. It's strange because weeks, months, would pass without a single word exchanged between them, and it never felt like anything was missing. Phil would know what to do, wouldn't let him get lost again. Wouldn't let him walk around like an idiot with a wrenched back (or worse). Wouldn't let Fury kick him out of their makeshift family and the only real home he ever had.     
  
There's an air duct directly over his bed, and one night when one lonely tear after another rolls down his face he unscrews the vent covering with his fingers and lifts himself inside, ignoring the screaming agony down his spine. He wiggles forward and around sharp corners until he reaches an intersection that widens enough to let him stretch out. He likes it. It's the cleanest air duct he'd ever crawled through. The dreams find him there, too, but there's a little less blue.    
  
Natasha chooses the chair next to him at the morning meeting the next day. He smiles at her—or tries too—thankful that he can stop picking at his scrambled eggs. Steve made them, and Barton is sure they're delightful but they taste like sawdust to him.    
  
"You have a meeting with Bruce after breakfast."    
  
"Why?"    
  
She looks at him like he's an idiot and he feels like an idiot. "He'll be in his lab. Don't be late." It sounds like a threat and he takes it to heart.    
  
Dr. Banner's lab is two floors above the common area where most of the team spend their off time. Barton has never been there, despite his deep curiosity. He might not be a super genius scientist, but he understands plenty. He knows Banner is doing something interesting because Banner would never waste time with something boring. The thought of wasting Banner’s time puts a guilty jump in his step. He gets there with five minutes to spare and uses the extra time to focus his breathing and wipe the pain from his face.    
  
Banner is sitting at his desk, wearing his glasses and a thoughtful expression as he studies the flat screen in front of him.   
  
It's Barton’s file. His normal one and the secret one. Barton doubts he has the clearance to look at either, but he and Stark share the same  Fuck S.H.I.E.L.D.  attitude and neither are above a little hacking. Clint swallows with an audible click and Banner turns around, smiles a little, pulls his glasses form his nose.    
  
"Quite an interesting history you have. Go ahead and have a seat."    
  
He's a little stiff as he lowers himself and he knows Banner notices. He doesn't say anything about the file, or about his interesting history, but his eyes keep going back to the list. Each name bigger than life right in front of his face. Each name an accusation. Each one a reminder of the blue. Bruce notices, grimaces, wipes the screen away with a tiny gesture of his fingers.    
  
"Sorry," he mutters. "I was looking for your medical history."    
  
"And the secret file happened to pop up with it?"    
  
"I was curious." He doesn't sound defensive, but he does look a little shamefaced. "You know, you're not the only one in that helicarrier who did something he regrets. And you're definitely not the only one who's done something he'd do anything to take back."    
  
"I think I've fucked my back."    
  
Banner nods. "Yeah, I thought that might be the case. Let's have a look."    
  
He's a good doctor, gentle and thorough, and he keeps up a steady stream of conversation that never ventures into anything dangerous or personal. It begins with a full body scan, which Banner uses to create a life-sized, 3D hologram of his body so they can examine the muscles of his back at his leisure. It's really a map of every mistake, broken bone, scar, contusion, and regret.    
  
Banner points as he talks, throwing out a bunch of medical jargon and scary sounding words that comes down to  your back is fucked . Not one but two herniated discs. He needs daily physical and massage therapy and plenty of rest but "there's no permanent damage that I can see."    
  
All Barton hears is that he's going to be out of commission for six to eight weeks. He isn't worried about his chances of recovery, but the time frame is a problem. A serious one.    
  
"Will it really take that long? What if I double up on physical therapy?"    
  
Banner shakes his head. "No, if you strain yourself, you could do far more damage. You have to be careful, Clint, okay?"     
  
He nods, blood turning to ice water as his stomach twists. His position in the Avengers is precarious enough without sitting out   every mission for six to eight weeks. His place in Pepper's life feels more important than ever. At least if he's with her he won't be taking up space and attracting attention to the fact that he's even more useless to them than they think.     
  
He's acutely aware that nobody else walked away with this kind of injury. Even Tony, who had technically been dead for a few seconds, escaped without any serious damage.    
  
"When you say rest…"    
  
"I mean if you aren't doing physical therapy, you need to be resting. Preferably bed rest. Your movement is going to be vastly restricted, I'm afraid."    
  
"I see."    
  
"Think of it as a vacation. You can get caught up on your reading. I know I have a stack of journals waiting…" His voice fades as if he's just now realizing who he's talking to. "How are you feeling? Besides the back?"    
  
"Fine."    
  
"There hasn't been any lingering side-effects? You've been through a traumatic experience, and I know a little something about…not being in control."    
  
"The link between me and Loki is broken."    
  
Banner puts a friendly hand on his shoulder. "That's not what I asked."    
  
Barton imagines taking him by the wrist, twisting his arm back until it snaps in two, and then flipping him to the floor. He wouldn't, but it's his first impulse whenever somebody just touches him.    
  
"Have you been sleeping okay?"    
  
"Yes." That's not technically a lie. He  does sleep. Eventually. And he doesn't remember the dreams. Usually.    
  
"What about your appetite?"    
  
"Normal."     
  
He takes Bruce's hand and lifts it from his shoulder, but doesn't release him. He turns his palm up and looks down at the lines, thinking of the old woman in Sofia who read his lifeline and informed him it was dangerously short. He doesn't know anything about life lines or reading palms, but he does know about reflexology.     
  
"What are you doing?" He sounds curious but not annoyed.    
  
"It's a little trick I learned. A calming technique."    
  
"I don't need to be calmed."    
  
"It feels good."  He proves it by pressing his thumb against the center of Banner's palm. Banner opens his mouth to protest, but Barton knows how to silence him. The human hand is  full of nerves and with a little skill and knowledge, the whole body could be manipulated. Barton has both in spades, and he keeps his head down, his attention on their fingers, because Banner is skittish and eye contact may be too much for him.    
  
Bruce keeps making noises like he's trying to get Barton's attention—aborted sighs and half words that don't add up to anything.  Barton ignores him. The man is like one giant, stressed tendon. He's a bowstring pulled too tight, a cock-backed hammer with a hair trigger. It almost feels like his ever-present anger has solidified in his body, forming a new skeleton beneath the thin layer of his skin.     
  
It hurts him. Barton knows it does, because when he takes the pain away, Banner nearly loses his balance. He slams his other hand down on the examination table, bracing his weight there while Barton pushes a little harder, searching for the nerves that will ease the tension in his triceps and biceps, the one that makes it easier to unclench his jaw, the one that has a direct connection to his groin.    
  
He's slow. He's systematic. He doesn't linger on the cluster of nerves that give Banner a hard-on, but he returns to them on an irregular pattern. So irregular that Banner can tell himself it's an accident or a coincidence, if he has to. And he might, because there's a visible affect, his pants tenting in front of him. His breathing is uneven, but Barton only notices because he's watching Banner so closely.    
  
He uses his other hand to unbutton Banner's slacks. He doesn't go for the zipper.  He doesn't know if Banner is straight, gay, bi, asexual, or what, but he thinks it's best to proceed like he's dealing with a very jumpy straight dude. He's not trying to get to Banner's cock anyway, he just wants to make it a little bit more comfortable for the man so he’ll concentrate on the pleasure and not the way his pants cut off his circulation.    
  
Barton shifts over on the table, making room for Banner to join him, if he needs to. The next move is the calculated risk. If he breaks contact with Banner, it might give him a chance to come back to his senses and pull away from Barton. But he knows if he switches his attention to Banner’s dominant hand, the new pleasure will be intense. Fortunately, Banner accepts the silent invitation to get off his feet, and once he’s sitting beside him, it’s easier to shift his attention.    
  
Banner sucks his breath in sharply as he presses on the center of his palm. Barton’s attention jumps to his face, but he doesn’t seem distressed. Just surprised. He can see hints of Banner’s erection through his open fly, and he moves his free hand to Banner’s thigh. He doesn’t move it again, creating only two points of contact, both of them innocuous, innocent, calculated.    
  
His posture changes as Barton continues, his shoulders going back and his spine straightening. He takes a deep breath with his diaphragm, closes his eyes, looks at least five years younger.  Barton takes that as his cue, reaches for Banner’s other hand, and uses his thumbs to press against the bundle of nerves that make his cock jump. He leans forward, trapping their hands between their chests, and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Banner’s mouth. He tries to jerk back, but Barton shifts his thumbs, and the new hold is enough to distract him. Barton tries again, this time kissing him a little more squarely, though the kiss itself remains chaste.    
  
Banner parts his lips first, and Barton responds immediately, letting his tongue slip inside, wiggle out, move in again. He places Banner’s left hand on his own chest, directly over his heart, and holds it there for a moment. When he lets go, Banner doesn’t move. He slides his fingers down Banner’s stomach to the opening of his pants, pushes away the obstructing material, and wraps his fingers around Banner’s throbbing dick.    
  
Banner tries to say something, but Barton deepens the kiss, cutting off his words with a sweep of his tongue. Thin lines of pre-come drip from his slit, and Barton uses his palm to spread the fluid, heightening the sensitivity with every pump of his wrist. It’s fast and dirty and barely lasts long enough to be called a thing. He’d like to take his time but giving Banner even a spare second to think about the situation could end things prematurely.    
  
Bruce moans against his mouth and lifts his hips--a second later, Barton’s hand is covered in cum and Bruce is shuddering and breathing a little funny. He pulls away from the kiss and he looks like he wants to say something, but Barton staves the words off a little longer by licking the jizz from his fingers, holding Bruce’s gaze while he laps it up.    
  
“I think I should thank you for that,” Bruce finally says with a shaky smile.    
  
“No. It was my pleasure.”    
  
“Clint...” His eyes narrow thoughtfully and it reminds him of the way Pepper looked at him. “That could have been a very dangerous, dangerous thing you just did.”    
“It felt good, right?”    
  
“Yes.”  Banner stands, wipes himself off and tucks himself back into his pants. “It felt better than good. Where did you learn how to do that?”    
  
A girl in Hong Kong once brought him to his knees. She wouldn’t touch him anywhere but his hands, wouldn’t let either of them get undressed, wouldn’t even let him near her bedroom. He’s not as good as her, though. She had magic in her touch, he just has a map of nerves imprinted in his memory.    
  
“Just picked it up somewhere.” He moves to stand, but Banner puts a hand on his chest, stops him.    
  
“Where do you think you’re going?”    
  
“I thought we were done here.”    
  
“We’re not. Lay back.”    
  
“Why? What’s left?”    
  
He looks pointedly at Barton’s groin--he’d was hard earlier but he’s not anymore. “Raincheck? My back...I’d really like to just go lay down for awhile.”    
  
Bruce doesn’t look exactly happy but he nods. “I’ll get you some Vicodin for the pain and program JARVIS with your physical therapy requirements. You should start tomorrow.”    
  
“Yes, sir.”    
  
He wasn’t lying about his back. He pops two Vicodin when he gets back to his suite, but he’s skeptical. He sleeps, though, and he escapes the blue. 


	4. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s good. He’s not complicated. Barton would say he’s a man out of his own time, but he’s stunned a man like Steve could exist in any time. They don’t talk much, but Barton absorbs him through touch and sight, learns that he is thoughtful and patient. He pushes Barton every morning, urging him along in measured increments, somehow knowing exactly where his boundaries were and exactly how far to push him past that. He’s sincere. He doesn’t wear a mask because he has something to hide. He wears it to protect his face. 
> 
> Barton likes him. He respects him. 
> 
> Maybe that’s why he finds himself answering honestly when Steve asks, “Did you know Coulson well?”

Barton starts his physical therapy the next morning. Banner loaded JARVIS with exercises and he selects four to fill his prescribed hour. He’s not to do more than fifteen minutes of each exercise--no more than an hour total in the gym. An hour. That’s a ridiculously limited amount of a time. It seems to him that if he wants to see results he should at least start at two. He’s not under direct orders from a superior to limit himself to one, but he’s not going to flaunt Banner’s instructions.    
  
He takes the elevator to the gym at quarter to five because Steve always arrives promptly at 0600. He doesn’t really believe he can get away without telling anybody, but the longer he can put it off, the better. Besides, this is going to hurt. He’ll probably make undignified sounds and he might even cry. He does not need Captain Fucking America to see him crying and sweating his way through a routine anybody else could do in their sleep.    
  
The first few reps go well. It feels good to move after so much stasis, and the pain isn’t anything he can’t work through. But it’s not long before he feels the drag of exhaustion, and he’s on a decline bench when his back spasms, the sudden cramp is like dry ice freezing his joints, burning him. He can’t breathe and his legs are locked over the bar, unresponsive. He tries to roll to the right, to the left, but he’s stuck, and the more he struggles, the more his back revolts.    
  
So he lays still, taking short, shallow, painful breaths. Time slides over him slowly until Steve is standing over him. Looming.    
  
“Clint? Are you okay?”    
  
He shakes his head. Steve doesn’t waste his time talking. He unhooks Barton’s knees from beneath the padded bar and  lifts him from the bench, cradling him against his chest. He can’t relax but for a moment--for the space of a heartbeat--he wants to. He wants to relax against Steve’s chest and let the bigger man hold him safe there. Steve carries him through to the next room where there are massage tables and a hot tub. He bypasses the tables in favor of the hot water, carrying him into the middle of the tub.    
  
He whimpers, feeling too good to be embarrassed by the undignified sound. Gradually, the muscles relax and he can take a deep breath. He turns his face into Steve’s chest, his heartbeat slowing, the pain receding to bearable levels.    
  
“Are you better now?”    
  
He nods and Steve steps out of the tub and takes him to the nearest table. Lying flat helps, though he has no choice but to stare up at Steve’s concerned face.    
  
“Thanks, man. Back spasm.”    
“How long were you stuck like that?”    
  
“I don’t know.”    
  
“I’ll call Bruce. If there’s something wrong...”    
  
“No, wait. I’ve already talked to him. There is...something wrong.” His voice doesn’t betray how much it kills him to admit that. “He gave me some exercises to do as physical therapy.”    
  
“And you’re doing it by yourself? Why didn’t you tell me?”    
  
“I thought I could manage.”    
  
“From now on, you’re not doing this alone. We’ll work together in the morning and Natasha can help you in the evening.”    
  
“I’m only supposed to have an hour a day.”    
  
“Then we’ll have two thirty minute sessions.”    
  
Barton doesn’t know what specific training Captain America has in this field, but if this is how Steve wants it than this is how it’ll be. He’s not in any position to argue, literally or metaphorically.    
  
After that, Steve takes his new job as part-time physical therapist very seriously. Stark and Banner get all the credit for being geniuses, but it seems like Steve knows everything (he tells Barton he spends a lot of his free time reading Stark’s digital library). He researches the best exercises and contacts the best physical therapists for consultation. He personally handpicks three massage therapists from the ones on the payroll and they bring new levels of relief Barton didn’t even know was possible. He is pathetically, frighteningly grateful.    
  
What he learns about Steve is simple. He is the type of man Barton would gladly follow into battle. Barton has served one master after another in his life, taking orders that were never explained or justified. Some of those orders he questioned. One he outright defied, knowing full well he would pay for it, gladly accepting the consequences for saving Natasha’s life. But Steve isn’t like any of them. He isn’t like anybody Barton has  ever known.    
  
He’s good. He’s not complicated. Barton would say he’s a man out of his own time, but he’s stunned a man like Steve could exist in any time. They don’t talk much, but Barton absorbs him through touch and sight, learns that he is thoughtful and patient. He pushes Barton every morning, urging him along in measured increments, somehow knowing exactly where his boundaries were and exactly how far to push him past that. He’s sincere. He doesn’t wear a mask because he has something to hide. He wears it to protect his face.    


Barton likes him. He respects him.    
  
Maybe that’s why he finds himself answering honestly when Steve asks, “Did you know Coulson well?”    
  
“He was my friend.” He hears exactly how it sounds. Not one friend among many, but the single person he counted as friend. Natasha was many things to him, but they weren’t friends.    
  
Steve hears it, too. “I take you don’t have many. No offense. I knew a few snipers...they weren’t what I’d call friendly.”   
  
“No...no I don’t.”    
  
“How long did you know him?”    
  
“Twenty years.”    
  
“I am sorry for your loss, Clint. I know what it’s like to lose a friend. A true friend.”    
  
The words come tumbling out. After holding them in so long they burn his throat, but he can’t stop them anymore. “It’s my fault.”    
  
“Yeah, I know how that feels, too.” He sits down on the bench beside Barton, his arms resting on his legs. “I watched my best friend fall to his death. He...I was supposed to make sure that didn’t happen. But it did. Right in front of me. But Clint...it wasn’t your fault.”    
  
Barton wants to believe that because it’s coming from Steve. “Loki...”    
  
“Loki is a sociopath with a chip on his shoulder the size of Thor. You were one of his tools. Not even a soldier because at least a soldier still has the ability to walk away. You were not the one who stabbed Coulson in the back.”    
  
He’s saying it because he means it. He only says things he means. He may be proven wrong but he’s never disingenuous. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t. He can feel something breaking inside of him. And it hurts more than his back ever did.    
  
“You’re not alone.”    
  
Clint looks up to see Steve is much closer. In fact his lips are only a few inches away, and his eyes tell the whole story. He telegraphs everything and he moves in slow motion. Clint’s mind races through possibilities, and he has time to consider and dismiss them all. He braces himself for the kiss, and for some reason, he’s expecting a blow. It’s not a blow. It’s sweet and gentle and there’s no intent but...comfort. Solace.    
  
Clint’s first instinct is to run, put space between them and try to gain the upper hand.  He telegraphs that as loudly as Steve telegraphed the kiss, and Steve puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. He could shrug it off and walk away. Steve wouldn’t hold him down, wouldn’t pull rank, wouldn’t do anything more than this small gesture to stop him from fleeing.    
  
“You’re not alone,” Steve breathes against his mouth.    
  
Clint leans in for another kiss because he  wants it. There’s no ulterior motive, no thought except the pillowy softness of Steve’s lips meeting his with gentle precision.    
  
He automatically makes a move towards Steve’s crotch, but he catches Clint’s wrist and gently brings his hand back to his own lap. Clint fades back from the kiss with an inquisitive quirk of his brow but Steve only shakes his head, gives his wrist a gentle squeeze.    
  
“You still have another set to do.”    
  
Clint blinks, unsure. But Steve is standing again and he’s all business. Clint gets through the set under Steve’s watchful gaze, too distracted by the memory of the kisses to notice the familiar stabbing in the center of his back.    
  
After that, kissing is not an usual part of their routine. Clint learns quickly that it’s not his call to make. Steve doles them out when he wants to, and there’s never a warning, never even a clear pattern. It’s a game Clint knows well, but he’s knocked off-kilter because he’s never been on this side of the game. Despite his confusion, he doesn’t stop playing. There’s a purity in Steve’s kiss precisely because it can only be given, never taken by subterfuge or force.    
  
As the days turn to weeks, Banner signs off on an increasing amount of activity, until he’s up to an hour with Steve every morning. The workouts intensify as his strength builds. Simply being at Steve’s side pushes Clint to try harder, and the familiarity of their routine is a balm for more than just his injured body.    
  
Steve surprises him in the shower after a particularly strenuous hour, steps right under the spray and crowds Clint against the wall. Clint has to tilt his head back and blink the water from his lashes, achingly aware of how close Steve’s groin is to his. He still smells like their workout, even stronger in the enclosed space now that Clint’s own sweat has been soaped away. He waits, because with Steve, patience is always a virtue.    
  
The water is as hot as Clint can make it, but compared to the searing heat of Steve’s mouth, it’s like drops of ice falling on his exposed skin. Steve was never shy about kissing him in the gym, but there they have more privacy, and there’s more to the kiss than a simple extension of friendship. Clint grasps the back of his neck and fits his other palm over Steve’s hip, pulling him closer, until his cock nudged Clint’s thigh.    
  
They stand like that for a long time, eyes closed against the sting of the water, pausing only to catch their breath before fusing their mouths together again. Clint doesn’t know why it’s happening, still doesn’t know if this is how Steve is with the whole team or maybe...   
  
Maybe Steve knows somehow? Knows what he did for Banner, knows that he still visits Pepper a few times a week to help her decompress. Perhaps he recognizes as agrees with Clint’s assessment of his place on the team? But as hard as it is to manipulate Steve, it’s even more difficult to believe Steve could be manipulative.    
  
Maybe Steve simply wants him?    
  
The thought carries with it a crushing certainty. Steve is not a specially trained assassin who will use  any means necessary to take out the assigned target. Steve does not know that kisses can be just as deadly as bullets. Clint is not his target, he’s...   
  
What, exactly?   
  
In his confusion, his training kicks in, takes over his actions. He slides his leg between Steve’s thighs and grinds against his cock until he’s hard. Steve sucks his breath in sharply but for the first time he doesn’t block Clint’s move. Clint’s own cock remains soft, though he’s grinding against Steve’s hard body and it feels so good. His hands move of their own accord, no longer locked in place, and he finally explores the body he’s now memorized entirely. He caresses the scars and fading burns, marveling at the small hints of imperfection, searching for any sensitive spots he could use to his advantage.    
  
If Steve wants him, then he would show Steve exactly how good he could be. He’ll foster that desire, coax with his fingers and his mouth, and then cement it with something Steve will think about and relive over and over.    
  
He breaks away, hungry for more than his lips.  Hungry . He skims his mouth along the column of his throat, tastes sweat and fresh water, licks over his Adam’s apple. The sound of his ragged breathing is lost beneath the water, but Clint doesn’t need to hear what he can feel. Steve’s chest jerks with each uneven inhale, and his pulse jumps. Clint digs deep to keep a hold of his control, because his body loves what’s happening, his blood is rushing to his ears.    
  
It’s a battle he can win until Steve fists his soft cock. He pumps his wrist, and slowly, Clint responds.  Stop him. What are you doing? Stop him. Don’t let him do this to you. Don’t let him compromise the mission . But Clint barely remembers the mission as his flesh swells, becomes engorged and too tender.    
  
He never takes anything for granted. He acts on intel he trusts, and there’s no source he trusts more than his own senses. But he can’t get a read on Steve, and he can’t get any sense of control. The blood rushes from his head to throb in his groin and he’s supposed to be giving, but there’s a plea on his lips, and he transmits it with every kiss. He’ll take. God, he’ll take anything he can get it’s been so long and he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But he’ll take it anyway.    
  
Steve is full of surprises and he drops to his knees before Clint can even think to move. He stares down at  Captain America’s blond head, barely visible in the billowing steam. His hands close into useless fists, banging back against the wall in an agitated rhythm. His heart rate increases and he doesn’t know if it’s arousal or fear responsible for the sudden spike.  This is not how it’s supposed to be this is backwards this is not right this needs to be fixed this is a problem .    
  
Steve nuzzles against his erection, kissing the head with a peck of his lips.  Kisses him again.  Kisses . As with all things, he moves on his own time. Clint’s stomach twists into knots, pulling tighter and tighter. The steam folds around him as Steve finally closes his lips around the tip and this is happening. It’s happening so he unclenches his fists and braces himself on Steve’s broad shoulders. The tension in his back releases, allowing him to arch his hips, and he drops his shoulders back to the surprisingly cool tile.    
  
Who taught him how to do this?   
  
Clint can’t begin to imagine, doesn’t think he’ll ever find out, either. But whoever it was, he or she did a damned good job. There’s no hint of teeth, no hesitation, no end to the swirling heat of his tongue. He takes it slow at first, and then he’s sinking lower and Clint is pushing forward to meet his throat. They have no problem falling into rhythm together, but Clint is definitely following Steve’s lead. He wouldn’t be able to handle the slow, exquisite heat if Steve wasn’t the one guiding him.    
  
It’s not that Steve is the king of blowjobs. There are clues to his general inexperience, but there’s still a certain amount of skill there. And he’s beautiful. It doesn’t seem right to be allowed to witness Steve’s cheeks hollowed and his eyes close, his pink lips stretched around a dick. Doesn’t seem right to experience it. But he is, with easy strokes down Steve’s throat. His balls brush against Steve’s chin, and the pressure is light but it sends a million tingles down his legs. There’s an answering tingle at the base of his spine. He automatically moves to cup his balls, but Steve beats him to it somehow, his fingers closing around the sac.    
  
He squeezes and Clint  bursts like an overripe tomato. He doesn’t even have the chance to warn Steve before he shoots, filling his mouth. He clutches Steve’s shoulder and pumps his hips faster, riding out the waves of pleasure until he’s complete spent and shaking. Steve straightens and wraps his long arms around Clint, pulls him close in a warm embrace while he shivers, his teeth chattering.    
  
“You’re doing such an amazing job. I want you to keep up the good work, okay?”    
  
Clint just nods, more confused than ever.    
  
Steve kisses the top of his head. “Better get cleaned up. Breakfast is in thirty.”    
  
He disappears as quietly as he arrived, leaving Clint alone.    
  
For once, Clint doesn’t want to be left alone. 


	5. Loki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “JARVIS?” 
> 
> “Yes.” 
> 
> He’s facing a huge flat panel. “Show me Loki.” 
> 
> Like a monster summoned from his nightmares, Loki’s face is suddenly floating in front of his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not emptiness. That’s all there is. There’s no rage, no disgust, no fury or resentment or regret. Just a great, empty, blue void.

It’s just a dream, but Barton is sinking again and he can’t feel his feet. He kicks and he kicks, but there’s no bottom, nothing to catch him, and his arms flail like broken wings, but he can’t pull himself back to the surface. All around him is the madness. The new him. It’s his blood. It’s going to flow through his veins and stain his heart. It’s his breath, the fluid that will fill his lungs. Total liquid ventilation. He’ll never need oxygen again. The waves beat against his head in a rhythm that sounds like a whisper. The whisper takes shape and he can hear it   
  
_come to me  
  
you’re mine  
  
where are you?   
  
come to me  
  
come back to me  
  
where are you Barton?  
  
where are you Clint?   
  
what’s mine   
  
Hawkeye _  
  
At first, he doesn’t want the voice, won’t let himself pay attention to the whispers. But they are the sea, and he can’t close his ears to the entreaties. He opens his mouth to answer and the blue floods his throat, steals his voice out of his chest.   
  
_I’m here  
  
Where you left me  
  
I’m Barton  
  
I’m Hawkeye  
  
Where you left me_  
  
He wakes up with the words still on his lips like a prayer. A prayer to a mad god who possesses dark magic, dark power, dark friends, dark thoughts. But he doesn’t need Barton to call out to him because Barton is right where he left him, in the tallest tower in one of the biggest cities. Conspicuous. A sitting duck. Knowing that Thor took him back to Asgard and he’s supposedly locked up and punished does surprisingly little to chase the echo of the voice from his head.   
  
He misses his work out with Steve for the first time. He misses the breakfast meeting. He ignores the call from Pepper, the knock on his door that must be Natasha, and the message from JARVIS that Steve is looking for him. The nest he made for himself offers no security and the walls are closing in around him. He’s been in the same place for too long.   
  
But what if he leaves and Loki is still there? What if he’s minding his own business in Prague and steps into a puddle of blue and wakes up to discover he’s destroyed everything for Loki’s pleasure? If the mad god is still in his head, then the safest place to be is the Tower, where there are people who can stop him.   
  
Where Natasha can stop him. She did it before and she’s the only one he trusts to do it again. His perfect match because she’s his better.   
  
He paces the room that now feels more like a prison than ever.   
  
Natasha must have reached the same conclusion at some point. Why pull a favor for a compromised agent? _She’s compromised too she said it remember she said it._ But not compromised by Loki . She wouldn’t use the word lightly since she knows what it means. She shouldn’t trust him anymore than Fury does, and that goes double for the rest of the Avengers. They don’t even know him. But keep your enemies close, right?   
  
Is he the enemy now? His head hurts. He dry swallows two Vicodin.   
  
_No. No, I’m not the enemy. Loki isn’t here. It’s only a nightmare._  
  
He takes the minidisc from its place with his bow and stares at it for most of the afternoon, wondering if he ought to listen to it now. He can’t bring himself to put it in one of the dozens of computers surrounding him. He doesn’t want JARVIS to have a copy, doesn’t want it to join the extensive digital library.  JARVIS already knows too much.   
  
“JARVIS?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
He’s facing a huge flat panel. “Show me Loki.”   
  
Like a monster summoned from his nightmares, Loki’s face is suddenly floating in front of his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not emptiness. That’s all there is. There’s no rage, no disgust, no fury or resentment or regret. Just a great, empty, blue void.   
  
_I need help._  
  
“JARVIS show me SHIELD file A29484 Barton, Clinton and Classified Addendum 21.” The file is on screen before he’s finished speaking. He thinks about how casual they always were on Star Trek when talking to the omnipresent AI _how is this my life now?_   
  
The list of names seems to be the answer to that.   
  
Larry Goodwin.   
  
Opal Alexander.   
  
Kelly Cummings.   
  
Inez Staples.   
  
It’s just a coincidence. That’s all. It’s not real just a random pattern your brain picked out.  But it’s there he just never noticed it before. It’s everywhere. There are four more names.   
  
Laura Linkletter.   
  
Ohna Svelkson.   
  
Kameron Geller.   
  
Isaac Barton (no relation).   
  
He dances his fingers over the screen, wiping the list into a scatter plot. But he still picks out the same pattern again and again, like he’s incapable of seeing anything else. _Larry Ohna Kelly Isaac LOKI LOKI LOKI_ .   
  
“Fuck me, I’m going crazy.” He pushes the words to the corner and they disappear, the screen blank once again.   
  
He doesn’t dare blow off his standing date with Natasha. Unlike Steve, she has the key code to his room and she’d use it.  
  
“What’s wrong with you, Barton?” The first words out of her mouth. She can’t actually mean that literally so he slips into a comfortable lie.   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
“You missed your PT and breakfast.”   
  
“I overslept.”   
  
“You haven’t been sleeping hardly at all.”   
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“I know your face.”   
  
_It’s the blue. It’s coming back ._  
  
He can’t say that. What if he’s wrong and he frightens her for nothing? But what if he’s right and they don’t even have a warning?   
  
“Can we work while we talk? My back is stiff.”   
  
“Only if you actually talk to me.”   
  
“There’s not much to talk about, Tasha. A few bad dreams. They rattled my cage, I admit, but...that’s all they are. Bad dreams.”   
  
“Would you tell me if they were more than that?”   
  
“Yes. Do you trust Thor?”   
  
“He’ll see to it that Loki is punished.”   
  
Barton shakes his head. “Do you trust him to stop Loki.”   
  
“Well, yeah. That’s part of the punishment.”   
  
“But...Loki is smart. Not just smart, _sly_. Thor is a great guy and an amazing warrior, but he’s not half as clever as Loki. He probably knows all kinds of tricks that Thor doesn’t.”   
  
“Thor’s not the only one guarding him. I’m sure the Asgardians know what Loki is capable of. They can stop him.”   
  
“You know that? Are you willing to risk your life on that? Because I don’t know if I am.”   
  
Natasha frowns and takes a step closer to him. They’ve both abandoned the weight machines, giving up any pretense of working out. “I trust you, Clint.”   
  
“It’s not me you need to trust, is it? I’m not the dangerous one, Loki is. You woke me up, Natasha, but...he’s still inside.”   
  
He’s never seen her face so troubled and she leads him to the nearest bench, urging him to sit. “What do you mean he’s still inside? Is he communicating with you?”   
  
“No...it’s the dreams. Sometimes I hear him...at first they were so bad I didn’t want to sleep at all but I could take enough sleeping pills that I could get through the night and not even remember them. But now...I don’t know if there are enough pills in the world to stop them.” He takes a deep breath, finally venturing towards the line he didn’t want to cross. “Perhaps it’s not such a good idea for me to stay.”   
  
“Clint, no.”   
  
“I’m more of a liability than an asset.”   
  
“We need you.”   
  
“No, you don’t, Natasha. You have what you need here without me. And if I go, you’ll have one less thing to worry about.”   
  
“Where will you go?” She takes his lack of an immediate answer as a victory and adds, “This is your home now. And I’d like you to stay here.”   
  
He doesn’t feel like he’s at home, but anything, ever, always, for Natasha.


	6. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve been a big help to Pepper.” He offers the glass but pulls away slightly as Barton reaches for it. “Haven’t you?” 
> 
> “I do what I can to help her.” 
> 
> “Oh, I know.” He hands Barton the drink, but doesn’t take a step back. Maybe he thinks he’s blocking the exit, but Barton’s got a clear path to the door and three ways to neutralize Stark before the glass reaches his lips. 
> 
> He sips the scotch, barely taking enough to wet his lips. It’s very good. He wants more. But not as much as he wants to be finished with this conversation. “Is there a problem?” 
> 
> “A problem?” His face splits into a huge grin. “Are you kidding? I’m a huge fan of your work. It’s...stellar. Do you get special training for that or is it something you’ve picked up along the way?”

The Avengers assemble once again, minus Hawkeye. Bruce doesn’t care what the new threat is, he’s adamant that Barton won’t be joining them. Barton doesn’t argue because he hears the words Banner won’t say.  He’ll be a liability to all of us.    
  
“I’m fine,” he says when Natasha gives him a look. “I’ll hold down the fort.”    
  
“It won’t be much longer until you’re back to one hundred percent,” she assures him.    
  
He believes her because he always believes her and because she’s with him in the gym every single evening, walking him through the exercises Steve taught her. He trusts her assessment over everybody’s, including the people with medial training. But it doesn’t make it any easier to watch them fly off to danger without him. Pepper’s not even in New York, so when they leave, the Tower is...lonely. He goes to Pepper’s office anyway and that’s where Tony finds him when they finally return from the mission.    
  
“The conquering heroes have returned and Manhattan is once again safe from the alien scourge,” Tony announces as breezes into the room. “Actually, they were more little yapping robot dog things swarming through the streets. It was a nightmare. You would have had fun. They made great target practice.”    
  
“Sounds like I missed a hell of a party.”    
  
“You did,” Tony says sympathetically, his gaze jumping around the office. “Pepper isn’t here, is she?”    
  
Barton’s spine stiffens. He should have known better. Why choose Pepper’s space over his own suite? If he’d been in his room, Tony wouldn’t be talking to him now, and they wouldn’t be embarking on a conversation Clint really, really didn’t want to have.    
  
“No. I think she’s in DC.”    
  
“Ah yes, today’s Thursday, isn’t it? It’s good she missed those robot things. They looked like real puppies, did I mention that?” Tony shakes his head. “Nasty business. Care for a drink?”    
  
“Thank you but--”    
  
“Would you care for a drink, Clint? Because I’d certainly like one right now and I don’t drink alone. Anymore. Well, often. I try not to drink alone more than a few times a week.”    
  
“I’d love one.” Clint settles back in his chair, eyes tracking Tony as he pours two stiff drinks and crosses the room.    
  
“You’ve been a big help to Pepper.” He offers the glass but pulls away slightly as Barton reaches for it. “Haven’t you?”    
  
“I do what I can to help her.”    
  
“Oh, I know.” He hands Barton the drink, but doesn’t take a step back. Maybe he thinks he’s blocking the exit, but Barton’s got a clear path to the door and three ways to neutralize Stark before the glass reaches his lips.     
  
He sips the scotch, barely taking enough to wet his lips. It’s very good. He wants more. But not as much as he wants to be finished with this conversation. “Is there a problem?”    
  
“A problem?” His face splits into a huge grin. “Are you kidding? I’m a huge fan of your work. It’s... stellar . Do you get special training for that or is it something you’ve picked up along the way?”    
  
“Both.”    
  
His smile slips into an amused little smirk before he takes a slow drink. Barton’s attention is drawn to the way he licks the drops of scotch from his lips. “You know, if you don’t drink then I’m technically drinking alone. And we already discussed how I can’t have that.”    
  
Barton raises his glass in a mockery of a salute and takes another sip. A little bit more this time. He hasn’t been drinking since the blue. There’s been too many pills and now isn’t the time to be walking around with dull senses. The whiskey makes his tongue warm and his mouth tingle. The heat spreads to his throat but doesn’t make it any further than that.    
  
“And Banner? I have to admit I found that...fascinating. Oh, don’t look so surprised. I told you I’m a fan of your work. And like any proper fan I immediately sought out everything I could find.”    
  
“You’ve been spying on me,” Barton says dully and finishes his drink. He hates that twice-damned computer. How is he supposed to live like this when  everything could be shared with  anybody ? There’s a record of every action. There are no secrets, only Big Brother’s every watchful eye.    
  
“No. I’ve been checking the security footage in public, open areas.”    
  
“Dr. Banner’s laboratory? What happened to doctor/patient confidentiality?”    
  
“He’s the only one bound by that technicality. I certainly never promised that kind of luxury around here.”    
  
“And Pepper’s bedroom?”    
  
“Pepper’s bedroom is  always under my surveillance.” He refreshes Barton’s glass. “She knows this. The two of us don’t have any secrets.”    
  
“And what about the shower? Can’t people have privacy there?”    
  
Tony’s eyes widened slightly. “The shower? What happened in the shower?”    
  
Barton’s stomach clenches so hard he’s afraid he’ll puke. “Nothing.”    
  
“Something naught happened, didn’t it? Who were you playing with?”    
  
“Nobody. Nothing happened.” He doesn’t even know for sure what happened in the shower, and he’s certain Steve never meant for it to be public knowledge. He keeps so many secrets for so many people, and that’s never been a burden, but this one feels huge.    
  
“Was is Agent Romanov? JARVIS, show me--”    
  
“Stop.” Fear drives Barton to his feet. “Please, I’ll do what you want. Just don’t...”    
  
“Wow. Somebody is a bit high-strung. Have another drink, Clint. I think you need it.”    
  
“I’ve had enough.”    
  
Tony’s mouth thins, his eyes suddenly serious. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps I chose the wrong tone. I’m sorry. Here, drink.” The glass appears in his hand as if by magic. “Friends?”    
  
Barton searches for any hints of a trick, but Tony seems perfectly sincere. He drinks, and the tingling spreads to his ears and scalp.    
  
“I really didn’t mean any disrespect.” His breath is warm and reeks of scotch. When did he get so close? “I was absolutely serious when I said I was a fan. I have a feeling you could teach me a few new things. I know what you’re thinking. I was the super playboy before a super hero, but I always bow to a man with superior hands. Superior anything, really, since there are so few.”    
  
The glass disappears from his hold and then Tony is holding both hands, palm up, studying them. Barton’s lips are still numb from the whiskey when he says, “I can show you.”    
  
“I know but what will you show me? That’s the question burning up my mind.”    
  
“Everything I know,” is the prompt reply, his eyes unwavering. He’s not going to back down and he won’t be the first one to look away. He never backs down from a challenge and Tony has thrown the gauntlet at his feet and all but announced his demand for satisfaction. He takes Tony by the shoulders and pulls him close, but the move is a fake-out. He purposefully misses Stark’s mouth to skim his lips over his jaw, the stubble on Barton’s unshaken cheek scratching over Tony’s skin. He follows that with the scrape of his teeth down Tony’s chin to his neck, where he turns the touch into a bruising kiss. He knows exactly where to bite, and he sucks the blood to the surface. Stark’s hand is on his shoulder and he squeezes gently, increasing the pressure as Clint bites harder. He tries to yank away and Clint’s reaction is instant, his reflexes still sharper than anybody’s, burying his hand in Stark’s hair. A flex of his fingers, a clutch and a twist and Tony is gasping.    
  
Clint releases him suddenly and shoves his hands into Tony’s chest, using enough strength to send him stumbling backwards into the nearest chair. Clint is on him in the space of a breath, straddling his lap, grinding his cock into Tony’s. Tony grunts with surprise, staring up at Clint like he’s never seen him before, obediently lifting his arms when Clint tugs on his shirt. He rips the material away, the sound of the cloth ripping shocking in the otherwise silent room.    
  
He leans back, balls his fist up and slams it into Tony’s left pec without warning, his knuckles connecting with a soft  wump . Tony’s cock is half hard until the second after impact. His cock twitches against Barton’s thigh, growing thicker as he continues to rain down the blows. It’s never enough to hurt him--not quite. Clint is definitely not using his full strength, but he knows Tony can take it. Knows Tony  wants to take what he can dish out and then go a little bit farther past that.    
  
But it’s not just about Tony. The first hit feels so good that he doesn’t even think about bringing his fist down again. And that feels even better than the first one, so he takes a gamble on the third. Soon his fists are flying so fast they’re barely visible and he knows he’s bruising Tony--knows he must be painting his skin blue and purple and black--but he doesn’t want to stop. He beats up on the punching bags with Steve now, but punching bags aren’t nearly as satisfying as solid flesh.    
  
But Tony has fast reflexes too, and when he’s had enough, he easily catches Clint’s fists in his palms and yanks him forward. He hits Tony’s chest with enough force to knock his air from his chest and then Tony is kissing him so hard he thinks he’ll  never catch his breath again. The kiss is just as brutal as Clint’s fists, only now it’s Tony dishing it out and Clint bracing against the assault. His lips grind against his teeth and Tony’s tongue is a brutal invader, showing absolutely no mercy, giving no quarter.    
  
Clint wrenches his mouth away when his head starts swimming, gasping for air while his bruised lips tingle. Their eyes clash, and Clint still sees a challenge. Something surges in his chest, and he sees an answering light in Tony’s eyes. That’s his only warning before Tony upends him, sending him crashing down. He puts his palms above his shoulders, catching himself as Tony follows him to the floor, and he slams their mouths using the forward momentum of his fall. Clint’s arms go around him in a hold meant to subdue, to turn the tide of a fight. He crushes Tony’s arms to his torso, applying increasing pressure to his core. The harder he squeezes, the more insistent Tony is as he thrusts his tongue between his lips.    
  
Clint pushes his leg between Tony’s thighs and uses the leverage to flip him over, reversing their positions. Tony doesn’t seem to mind being on his back. He thrusts his hips up, pressing their groins flush. Clint grinds down, his cock thick and throbbing like it hasn’t been in...too long. Blood rushes south, pools between his legs, makes him ache with enough pressure that he feels it all the way to his teeth.    
  
Clint is wearing a faded T-shirt and battered, soft jeans, and they each rubbed against his flushed skin in the most maddening way. He locked his knees against Tony’s hips and sat up, yanking his shirt off and then falling forward again, his skin drawn to Tony’s heated, bruised flesh like their bodies were magnetized. This time, he feels a trickle of blood on the inside of his lip and he tastes copper on his tongue.  His cock is furious against his zipper, and Clint has no hope of gaining that control back. Some hard-ons can be ignored until they wilt, but not this one. He needs friction and sweat and panting pleas for more.    
  
Being on top of Tony is like trying to ride a mustang with no bridle. His compact body is powerful, thrumming with energy and impossible to control. Clint can’t stay on top for long, even with his knees tight and his fingers holding Tony’s arms with bruising strength. He rolls Clint to the left and by some miracle they don’t directly crash into the glass table there, but they’re close enough that Tony has to lean to avoid hitting his shoulder as he kneels. His hands go directly to Clint’s fly and  Jesus H Christ thank you god  Clint’s cock is suddenly free.    
  
Tony’s hand is hot and smooth and he squeezes so tight that Clint sees stars. He fumbles with Tony’s pants, but it’s pointless until Tony relaxes his grip. When he can force his fingers to cooperate again, he rips the buttons open and yanks his boxers down, his mouth going dry as he gets his hand around Tony’s thick shaft. He squeezes just as hard--harder actually because he knows his hand is much stronger, and he torques his wrist and it’s like letting air out of a balloon. Tony’s whole body practically deflates--though his cock is harder than ever--and Clint has the opening he needs to flip their positions again, rolling them away from the glass table.    
  
Clint is on top but he’s not in control. Of himself or the situation. If he was on top of his game, he’d already be balls deep and making Tony beg for a pounding, not fumbling and aching and distracted by hard, bone-rattling kisses. They tug and push on each other’s pants, angling for whatever inches they could spare as they kicked away the last of their clothing.    
  
Clint holds himself over Tony’s body with one hand and wraps his other around their shafts, squeezing and pressing and rubbing the throbbing flesh together. Precome smears his hand as Tony thrusts up, rocks and bucks his hips because it feels amazing but it’s not enough. They both know this won’t do, won’t be enough to satisfy even a fraction of the lust flowing between them.    
  
He shifts to straddle one of Tony’s thighs, lifting his other leg straight up in the air, letting it rest on his shoulder. Tony’s hole is exposed, and Clint slides his finger over Tony’s crown, making his finger slick with the fluid there before seeking his pucker. Tony kind of laughs-moans as Clint pushes in, and then he laughs-gasps and Clint doesn’t know what’s so funny. He eases in all the way to the knuckle and wiggles his digit a little, turning his wrist right and left, working open the tight channel.    
  
“Think you’re going to fuck me, hmmm Hawkeye?” Tony bends his knee and kicks Clint in the shoulder hard enough to send him flying back--hard enough that the pain actually penetrates the hormone and desire soaked fog he’s in. He lands on his back and coughs, trying to catch his breath, his head spinning. “I can tell you now, it’s not going to be that easy. Not that I’m not interested. Pepper hasn’t seen your dick yet, has she?”    
  
“What?”    
  
“I only ask because I’m sure if she had she would have told me how...pretty it is.”    
  
“Pretty?” Clint wheezes. The last word he would have expected Tony--or anybody else--to use.    
  
“Hmm, yes, quite. You don’t mind, do you?”    
  
He doesn’t wait for an answer, lifting Clint’s hips off the floor, hooking his legs over his shoulders and then bending to suck Clint’s velvety head into his mouth. In the next moment, he’s all the way down Tony’s throat, the muscles gripping his length, massaging him, making him even harder though he’s not sure how that’s possible.  He flexes his legs, bracing himself with his palms above his shoulders and flips up, rolling Tony to his back and driving his cock even deeper down his throat.    
  
He fucks Tony’s mouth with hard, precise thrusts until he gags, pistons his hips while Tony digs his fingers into his thighs. He fists Tony’s hair and pulls, rises up and then comes down, both of them grunting every time Clint’s ass came down on his chest. He’s not on the same edge he was with Steve, not walking the razor sharp line he was before, and it’s easier to hold back the tide of his pleasure.    
  
Tony’s hand moves down the curve of his ass and between his cheeks, his middle finger tickling over Clint’s pucker. Clint shifts back, forcing the tip inside, and Tony meets him with a harder shove. He adds a second finger without any warning, and the resulting burn is so surprising that Clint freezes. Only for a moment, but it’s more than enough for Tony, who takes advantage by ceasing control of the rhythm. He drives Clint forward with hard thrusts into his ass, swallowing around his shaft and hollowing his cheeks each time.    
  
Tony wraps his other arm and wrenches him to the floor, rolling him onto his back without removing his mouth or fingers from Clint’s body. Clint has his thighs locked over Tony’s ears and all it would take is one simple motion to snap his neck. The realization isn’t just an idle observation and he forces himself to relax. Of course, as soon as he does, Tony is moving, shoving Clint’s legs off his shoulders and pushing himself up to his knees, gaining the upper hand once again.    
  
“Fuck me,” Clint rasps, knowing Tony is waiting for those words, that submission. They could keep flipping each other, changing positions all night until they were both exhausted, but Clint isn’t interested in that battle. He’s more interested in his prize for concession. He doesn’t exactly expect an argument from Tony, but he doesn’t think it’ll be that easy, either.    
  
But it is. Tony pulls his fingers free and spits in the palm of his hand, stroking himself to spread the slick. It’s not much and Clint’s ass hasn’t been fucked (to his knowledge) in a very long time. It’s going to hurt and his stomach twists with excitement at the thought, frame shivering with anticipation as Tony pushes his bent legs open. He lines himself up, the crown straining against his too-tight opening. Without copious amounts of lube, it’ll require brute strength.    
  
He cants his hips, resting his weight back on his shoulders and his back twinges hard enough to make him gasp. In the rush, he’s forgotten all about his physical limits, and a part of him might be craving the pain, but this is too distracting. Tony reacts to the pain that must be visible on his face before he has the chance to speak, backing away and flipping him over with a hand beneath his hip. Clint draws his knees up beneath him, popping his ass up. This position is easier for him, his back already feeling better.    
  
This time when he feels the tip of Tony’s cock, he doesn’t hesitate to slam backwards, impaling himself, forcing his tight, dry hole to accept the thick shaft. The pain is sharp, the burn all-consuming, and Tony might have been taken by surprise but there’s no hesitancy in his hips. He meets Clint with a grunt, hands cradling his hips. There’s nothing restrained about the way they move, nothing gentle between them. They move violently and between their grunts and the loud, rhythmic slapping for their skin, they sound like they’re in the middle of a brutal fight.    
  
He tastes red and copper and there’s black on the edges of his vision, but there’s no blue, not even a hint of it. There’s no room for it with Tony filling his body so relentlessly, like he’s claiming dominion over it. There’s no fight in Clint--or rather not enough fight to resist Tony. But that’s only because he doesn’t  want to resist Tony. The blue is an icy sea, and his days are marked with loneliness, but Tony is all heat and power, a living extension--embodiment--of his arc reactor.    
  
He fucks like a machine, like his hips are actually on pistons, forcing Clint’s ass open until the burn fades and there’s only gut-clenching friction. It goes on and on, stretches out to infinity, and Clint is powerless to do anything but take it. He can’t even support himself, his face pressed to the carpet, the friction against his chest giving him a wicked carpet burn. It’s a relief more than anything, and his satisfaction doesn’t require an orgasm. He could just go on like this until they’re both completely, utterly exhausted and weak.    
  
They’re not silent, Clint barking out his grunts and Tony’s mouth running a mile a minute. He talks and talks, words raining down without a pause--pet names and exclamations and questions that don’t really require answers. His voice is low, rasping over Clint’s skin like sandpaper. Sometimes he does respond, a  yes please or a  more more more in random, shotgun bursts. It feels like Tony wants to fuck him inside out.    
  
Time is forgotten, passes at its own speed without Clint.  He’s not aware of it at all until the office turns a dusky gray. A line of sunlight touches down on the carpet in front of him, grows wider and wider and is Tony going to do this all morning? Clint wouldn’t be surprised if the answer is yet. He wouldn’t protest, either. He’s sore, but it’s a familiar, welcome pain that he understands, and besides, the soreness is nothing compared to the constant swell of pleasure surging through him.    
  
Tony hooks a strong arm under his chest and pulls him up. He can feel the arc reactor against his back but barely registers it as Tony fists his cock.  It only takes one firm stroke and he clamps down with the intensity of his climax, his tight walls sending Tony over the edge. A white-hot heat starts in Clint’s stomach and bursts through him with cleansing fire, his cock jerking and jerking in Tony’s hand.    
  
Afterwards, they have the strength left to make it as far as Pepper’s bed. Tony assures him she won’t mind finding the two of them snuggled up under her silk sheets, and Clint has to acknowledge the truth of that. He’s surprised that Tony meant snuggling quite literally, the other man wrapping around him in a way that Clint can honestly say he’s never experienced.    
  
It’s strange.    
  
He likes it.    
  
As he slips into the welcoming darkness (not even a pinpoint of blue) of sleep, he thinks he hears Tony saying something about still being his biggest fan. It’s the last thing he’s aware of until he wakes some twelve hours later. 


	7. Thor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barton’s chest tightens and he knows the truth at his core. He looks around the room, not lingering on their solemn faces for too long. Except Natasha. She doesn't look solemn, she looks pissed. He does a quick mental weapons check, even though she knows everything he carries with him on a daily basis, knows how to disarm him, knows there’s no surprises. Still, fighting might be his only shot...
> 
> Shot at what, he couldn’t say. 
> 
> “Loki’s still in my head.” 
> 
> Nobody reacts with a hint of surprise at Barton’s calm declaration, though Steve coughs a little, Banner fidgets his fingers, and something absolutely _murderous_ runs through Natasha’s eyes.

There’s a surprise lightning storm just after dinner but Barton doesn’t understand the significance as he watches the lightning dance over the bay. He thinks about abnormal seasonal weather patterns and the direction of the wind and doesn’t spare a thought for the _ God of Thunder _ until JARVIS calmly informs him that there is an emergency meeting in the common dining area and his presence is urgently requested. That’s when he makes the connection and he nearly loses his balance to an alarming moment of vertigo.  
  
He can’t ignore the summons, though the sense of dread is much worse than when he got his call to Fury’s rarely used office. If Loki has escaped then he may turn at literally any second. By the time he reaches the meeting, he’s ready to fight whoever he has to, whether that was Loki or one of the Avengers waiting for him. Adrenaline floods his system, washing away the bitter taste of fear, and there’s a challenge in his eye and his step as he walks into the room.  
  
Thor is the first to see him, as he is the closest to the door, and the first to welcome. He slaps Barton’s back with a good-natured thud and booms, “Clint Barton it is good to see you again, my friend.” Barton’s about to say something like cut the bullshit when Thor turns the shoulder pat into a full-bodied hug. Barton’s too shocked to do anything at first, and by the time he moves his arms, Thor is releasing him.  
  
“My apologies, Clint, but I am the messenger of unfortunate tidings.”  
  
Barton’s chest tightens and he knows the truth at his core. He looks around the room, not lingering on their solemn faces for too long. Except Natasha. She didn’t look solemn, she looks pissed . He does a quick mental weapons check, even though she knows everything he carries with him on a daily basis, knows how to disarm him, knows there’s no surprises. Still, fighting might be his only shot...  
  
Shot at what, he couldn’t say.  
  
“Loki’s still in my head.”  
  
Nobody reacts with a hint of surprise at Barton’s calm declaration, though Steve coughs a little, Banner fidgets his fingers, and something absolutely murderous runs through Natasha’s eyes.  
  
“I’ve been having dreams,” Barton continues. “Nothing specific. I told Natasha about them.” That’s said almost defensively. “But I haven’t been acting under any orders or in any communication with him. I would have reported anything concrete as soon as it happened.”  
  
“We know,” Tony says. “Why would we think differently?”  
  
“Loki’s influence on you is negligible. It seems easiest for him to contact your sleeping brain. We may never have realized what was happening but I found him in a very...agitated state.” Thor almost seems to stumble over the last two words.  
  
“Agitated how?” Tony asks, the picture of innocence.  
  
Thor ignores him. “He made comment on the extent of your appetite and said that now his plans for you have changed.”  
  
“Wait, he said his plans have changed? His current plans for me?”  
  
“Yes. I found his state and his words quite bewildering so I asked Heimdall what he could tell me of your doings.”  
  
“Who’s Heimdall?” Steve asks.  
  
“The Gatekeeper. He told me of your couplings with Pepper Potts, Banner, Stark, and Rogers...”  
  
“Rogers?” Tony looks bewildered than his face cracks into his I’ve-solved-the-mystery smirk. “The shower! I knew I should have looked for that video.”  
  
Clint doesn’t look at Natasha. He can’t. She wouldn’t care one whit, and that’s probably the biggest reason he doesn’t want to see her face.  
  
“Once he told me of those events, a good deal of Loki’s behavior and comments began to make more sense. But never fear, my friend, for now I also know the key to freeing you from Loki’s service, once for all.”  
  
“How did you obtain that?” Natasha asked.  
  
“My brother was quite willing to talk once I applied the correct amount of force.”  
  
Great. Barton knows damned well that intel gathered from using ‘the correct amount of force’ was suspect at best but most likely not worth a damn. Loki could have easily told his brother a big old fib.  
  
“How do we know he wasn’t lying?” Natasha again and the only other one in the room likely to understand how ineffective torture is as an interrogation technique.  
  
“He gave me ample assurances that the magic he taught me will do the trick.”  
  
Barton stares, and he thinks his mouth might actually be hanging open. Is this guy for real? “No.”  
  
Thor cocks his head. “No? What are you denying?”  
  
“All of it. Whatever you want to do. It’s not going to happen. Not while I’m awake to fight it.”  
  
“Do you wish me to knock you unconscious?”  
  
“No. I wish you’d kill your brother already.”  
  
Thor immediately moves into his fighting stance, his hand going to his hammer. The fact that he would make that sort of aggressive move triggers something red and furious deep inside of him. There’s no hint of blue anywhere--this is his own sea of madness, liquid hot rage bubbling and churning like lava waiting for any opening to erupt to the surface. He should have the pleasure of gutting Loki, of killing him slowly and coldly, of drawing out the torture until he’s completely spent. He should have the right to resurrect Loki and kill him again and keep killing him for every single SHIELD agent he took out, for every innocent civilian he murdered with Clint’s help .  Thor should be at his feet, begging him for Midgard’s forgiveness and offering him anything for a single thread of mercy for his brother.  
  
But Thor takes Loki away. Thor lets him live. Thor defends him.  
  
Thor reaches for his hammer.  
  
For all Clint knows, Loki isn’t being punished at all. For all he knows, Loki is living it up as Prince of Asgard and son of Odin and nobody is being punished at all. There’s no justice for any of his victims.  
  
Including Phil.  
  
Clint doesn’t consider his extremely terrible odds of killing Thor in hand-to-hand combat. He forgets there’s anybody else in the room, and there might actually be steam coming out of his ears. He certainly feels hot enough for it, the back of his neck burning with his anger. He reaches for his knives and by god somebody’s going to pay if it kills him.  
  
It’s Natasha who steps between them. Natasha who catches his wrist and puts a warning hand up to Thor’s chest. Steve is right behind her, gently taking Clint by the arm, and Bruce is already at Thor’s side.  
  
“He didn’t mean it,” Bruce tries, though he’s not very convincing.  
  
“I meant it.” Clint spits the words out like nails. “You come here with your horseshit intel and magic fucking words and meanwhile I’m losing my mind. Loki isn’t my brother. He’s not even your brother, is he? He’s just the piece of shit who took everything away from me, who took my life ,  and left me with nothing. Absolutely nothing.”  
  
“Clint--” Natasha starts.  
  
“I lost my job. I lost my safe houses--funny word, safe. That’s a feeling I’ll never have again. I lost my only friend. I lost my sense of purpose. Hell, I even lost myself. So yeah, I’m dead serious, Thor. I wish you would kill your brother.” Every word is precise and measured and coated in his anger. His head is throbbing and Steve’s hand is like a lead weight on his shoulder, holding him down, keeping him in place.  
  
“You didn’t lose your only friend,” Natasha says softly.  
  
“I can build you a safe house,” Tony adds. “Hell, I can build you a dozen, each more safe than the last.”  
  
“You definitely have a purpose.” Banner’s smile is wry. “It’s the same reason we’re all here, right?”  
  
“You haven’t lost yourself. You still know who you are.” Steve’s soft but forceful voice.  “And if you’re confused, we know who you are.”  
  
Thor relaxed and bowed his head in apology. “I am sorry for my reaction. You fought very valiantly and you are my shield-brother, I shouldn’t have been angry. These past weeks with my brother have been very trying and my temper is rather short.”  
  
Clint’s still furious but he shrugs, like the whole thing is water off his back. “I don’t trust anything Loki says.”  
  
“I understand but it is imperative that we severe the tie between you as soon as possible. Unless you have another suggestion then I suggest we continue with my plan.”  
  
“I have an idea.” Natasha folds her arms and looks from Clint to Thor and back again. “We fuck it out of him.”  
  
Clint frowns. “I’m sorry, that’s my bad ear. What did you just say?”  
  
“I know you heard me, Barton, and if you think about it, it makes perfect sense.”  
  
“It makes perfect sense to me,” Tony volunteers. “I already love this plan.”  
  
“He can feel it, right? That’s what Thor said...he gets agitated. Maybe it takes powerful emotions to short-out the control.”  
  
Steve snaps his fingers. “Like in the Star Trek episode with the space pollen! Remember when Spock falls in love and then Kirk goads him into a fight to make him angry enough to break their hold?”  
  
“But I thought you said you hit him in the head really hard,” Bruce says.  
  
 _Cognitive recalibration.  
  
It’s a door, isn’t it? Doors open from both sides. _  
  
Natasha meets his eyes. “What do you think, Barton? Did the concussion knock some sense in you or was it something else?”  
  
Of course it was something else. It was Natasha. Always her.  
  
For Clint, it couldn't have been anything--anybody--else. 


	8. The Black Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you come to kill me, Hawkeye?” 
> 
> “That’s the order. You’ve pissed off a lot of people, Widow. There’s even a bounty on your head.” 
> 
> “More than one,” she says indifferently. “What are you waiting for? Let’s dance.” 
> 
> “Do you want to die?” 
> 
> “I have no feelings either way. If it’s my time, then it’s my time.” 
> 
> “I don’t believe it’s your time.”

  
The first time he actually sees the Black Widow, she’s fighting three thugs in a narrow alley in Rome. Though really, it’s very kind to call the slaughter a fight. Four to her one, and she moves with liquid grace, all black leather and flowing red hair. Hawkeye has tracked her half way across the world, always one step behind, following intel blindly because he never sees her. Only small clues scattered here and there that most people would have never found. But Barton always sees them and he never doubts their meaning. He knows he’s getting close to her, but he never expects to catch her in Rome.  He’s perched thirty feet above, resting on the stone ledge of an old building, his string pulled back.   
  
But he can’t shoot her.   
  
First, he wants to see how the fight will go.   
  
A terrible excuse because there’s never any doubt. Within minutes, she has all four men on the ground, unarmed and permanently debilitated. Maybe dead. Two of them aren’t moving and Clint thinks if they do walk away from this cobblestone alley, they should take themselves to the nearest Cathedral and find God. She melts back into the shadows and he keeps pace with her, staying high above her, negotiating the tall buildings with their narrow crevices and blood-soaked history.   
  
She stays in Rome for weeks. Most of the time, she blends. She wears the latest Italian fashions and keeps her hair pulled back in a conservative braid or bun. She doesn’t go looking for trouble, and she’s naturally paranoid, going to great lengths to cover up where she sleeps every night. But he’s always above her. Always has a bird’s eye view, and he knows where she goes when the Roman streets empty and the Italians concede for the night. He thinks she’s on a job because the Black Widow doesn’t do vacations.   
  
Phil calls him every night for an update, and Hawkeye doesn’t quite lie. He just doesn’t admit that he’s not only had visual confirmation of her existence, but he’s seen her dozens of time since then. He could have taken her out in the middle of a crowded plaza. He could have taken her out in the privacy of her own bedroom. He could have taken her out over dinner, after her shower, and at the Trevi Fountain. He bribes the cops and pays off gyspy kids and she’s never out of his reach.   
  
But for the first time in his life at SHIELD, he’s given an assignment he simply can’t complete. He knows who she is, knows who she’s killed and what she’s done. There’s a file he’s memorized from front to back, though it’s thin, the number of confirmed kills much, much lower than the number of suspected kills. Her childhood is obscured entirely, as though she was built by Mother Russia and never existed as a baby. But she must have been a little girl once and Hawkeye wonders about her. He knows if he doesn’t make a move soon, Phil will hop on a plane and fly to Rome and see to the assignment himself. If he doesn’t act soon, they might even think he’s been compromised.  
  
Maybe he has. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He knows better, knows he’s still loyal to SHIELD, but the Black Widow plucks a chord in his chest he never knew existed.    
  
He prepares his argument carefully, though he’s not sure if he’s acting in his own best interests. He has his justification in place before he formally makes up his mind, though really his decision was made in that alley, when she fought like a ballerina dances, with ease and beauty that makes him believe in poetry. He doesn’t tell anybody what he’s planning, especially not Phil. He doesn’t tell anybody about the risk he’s willing to take, and if things did go south, he would simply disappear without a trace. Maybe Phil would suspect the Black Widow though he’d never know that Hawkeye offered himself up as a willing sacrifice.   
  
She takes a train to Florence, choosing a seat in the sixth car. She sits in the back row. He sits in the first row of the seventh cart and angles himself so he can keep an eye on her. She wears over-sized dark glasses that cover most of her face and has her hair tucked in a brightly colored silk scarf that she bought from a street vendor that morning.  She clutches a handbag on her lap and spends the whole journey staring out the window, absorbing Italy’s green countryside.   
  
It’s harder to keep his distance in Florence. The city is so much smaller than Rome. More intimate. It seems as though they’re destined to meet there. SHIELD intel says there’s an arm’s dealer from Sudan somewhere in the city, and she leads Barton right to him. He happens to be on SHIELD’s most wanted list, and Barton thanks his lucky stars for small miracles. She stakes out the meeting place two hours before their rendezvous, giving him plenty of time to scope the area out and come up with an effective strategy to take out the dealer and leave the Black Widow at his mercy.   
  
The shot required is a little tricky. He hooks his toes over the ledge of the building and hangs off the side, aiming the bow upside down through the window. The dealer sees him a second before he takes the shot and it’s not enough time to flee or even sound a warning. He opens his mouth and Hawkeye buries the arrow in his gullet, pinning him to the wall behind him. The Black Widow turns, ready to fight, as he flips himself into the open window, rolls onto his knee, and aims his bow in a single, graceful motion.   
  
“Don’t get up on my account,” he greets.   
  
“It took you long enough.”   
  
“You were expecting me?”   
  
“I was expecting you since Prague. I thought we had a date.”   
  
“What do you call this? There’s even some wine and candles. Would you have liked flowers?”   
  
“I’m not really that kind of girl.”   
  
“So I noticed.”   
  
“What’s your name?”   
  
“Hawkeye.”   
  
“Have you come to kill me, Hawkeye?”   
  
“That the order. You’ve pissed off a lot of people, Widow. There’s even a bounty on your head.”   
  
“More than one,” she says indifferently. “What are you waiting for? Let’s dance.”   
  
“Do you want to die?”   
  
“I have no feelings either way. If it’s my time, then it’s my time.”   
  
“I don’t believe it’s your time.”   
  
“Is that your call to make?”   
  
“Do you see anybody else here? I could have emptied my entire quiver in you by now, if I really wanted to.”   
  
“Do you want me to beg for my life?”   
  
“No.” It’s the last thing he ever wants. She’s an impossibility and he doesn’t want to do anything to change the core of her. “I want you to defect. Come back to the States with me.”   
  
“I can’t do that.”   
  
“Why not? Because Mother Russia has been so good to you? You don’t owe anybody your loyalty. You wouldn’t even have to change your line of work. Just start taking out the bad guys.”   
  
She snorts. “The bad guys? Who decides that?”   
  
“Do you make any of your own decisions now? I’m giving you an opportunity nobody else will ever offer you. Anybody else given this assignment would have already ended your life.”   
  
She shakes her head. “Anybody else on this assignment would already be dead. Why don’t you join me? We can both defect and lead them all on a merry chase. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”   
  
And he’s tempted. For a dizzying second he’s so tempted he almost lays down his bow. He loves his job, loves his place in the world, but he would trade it all in a second to be with her and he doesn’t even know her. But he is smarter than the average bear and he knows the come-hither look in her eyes and the tempting display of her body is only a trap. Whatever desire he harbors for her must be ignored and suppressed because that’s her greatest weapon. He’s not foolish enough to think he’ll ever have sex with her, and he’s not suicidal enough to want to try.   
  
“I’m trying to give you a chance at a life. A real one.”   
  
“A real life?” She shakes her head. “You’re giving me the chance to trade one master for another.”   
  
“If you come with me now, you need never serve another master again. You’ll be free.”   
  
“What does that even mean?”   
  
“It means you’ve got nothing left to lose. I can’t let you walk out of this room, Widow. One way or the other, the Russian agent I’ve been sent to take out will die tonight.”   
  
“What guarantee do I have that I won’t be assassinated as soon as I step on American soil?”   
  
“You have my word. That’s all I can offer but it’s all you need.”   
  
She slowly reaches behind her back and he tenses, aiming the arrowhead at her heart. She pulls her guns from her belt, holds them up so he can see and releases the clips. They clatter to the ground before she sets the guns on the table and starts unbuckling the various clips and belts keeping her guns and her smaller revolvers in place. He watches as she strips herself of weapons, and when she’s done, she might as well be standing before him naked. That’s the look on her face. And the feeling he gets from knowing she’s completely at his mercy now.   
  
“Do you want to get something to eat?” Hawkeye asks.   
  
“I could use a drink.”   
  
They take care of the dead arms dealer and then share two giant plates of ravioli and three bottles of wine--the last of which was a sweet dessert wine that Hawkeye could probably drink by the gallon. She doesn’t talk much, though she will answer direct questions. He doesn’t ask more than a handful, mostly content to sit in the reassuring silence. Ultimately, it’s their shared silences that convince him he’s done the right thing. He can hear everything in the spaces between her verbal answers. They go back to his room when they’re both full and a little tipsy, and he ignores her expectant look when she strips and crawls into the bed. He pulls a chair to the window and leans back on the back two legs, with one foot braced against the windowsill, the other dangling an inch above the floor. She’s a silver goddess and he’s the fool who wants to carry her out of the temple so he can worship her in his own home.   
  
She’s not Natasha to him--not for years yet--but he watches her sleep anyway. A lifetime later, when he’s sick with the blue, when he’s drowning in it, it’s not her red hair that gets through to him. It’s not the kicks to his chest, or the perfect way she mirrors every single move because there’s not a single move she doesn’t know. It’s not the blow to his head, the kick to his face, the subsequent concussion.   
  
It’s the ghost of a memory, the silver Italian moon on her skin that pierces the endless blue depths, reaching into the churning ocean to show him the way out. It’s the slope of a shoulder beneath a thin sheet, the gentle sound of her even breathing punctuated by the occasional snore. It’s the understanding that once, a long time ago, he made the right call. 


End file.
